


I Am Weak And Therefore Fold

by soviet_Crab



Series: At Least We Now Have A Story To Tell [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Kinda, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i edited a coulple things, im very sorry about tom but i had to, post cannon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23779678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soviet_Crab/pseuds/soviet_Crab
Summary: Will's lost everything. But nothing changes. The war rages on around him.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: At Least We Now Have A Story To Tell [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713082
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is just will's side of the story from My Life's Best Part

Will sank heavily against the tree. He had never felt this level of exhaustion before. It felt like he had gone full circle and was too tired to even sleep. One of his hands found its way to his breast pocket, retrieving the blue tobacco tin inside. It was still cool from his swim earlier.

Inside were photos of his sister and her daughters. On the back of her picture his sister had written four words. Her cursive was always much neater then his and he envied her for it. They read, ‘Come back to us’. He stared at these words for a long time. If he focused, he could still feel the heat from her hand as she wrote them.

Still in the tin was a metal chain with a little gold ring. Will felt a lump in his throat forming as he looked at it. Touching it felt wrong. He undid the clasp and slipped the ring off. Then reached under the collar of his coat and took off his own chain. On it was a larger, silver ring. He added the gold one to his and placed it back around his neck, tucking it safely under his coat. It still feels warm against his chest.

The sun tells him it is almost noon when he feels the presence at his side. Lieutenant Blake is standing beside him. He feels sick. 

“The medics are able to take you now,” he holds out a hand to Will. 

Will accepts and together they walk to the med tents. Cries from the injured sound around them, and he tries his best to ignore them. He sits on one of the empty cots and the Lieutenant stands nearby. He wished the other man would just leave. His presence makes Will’s stomach twist with guilt. If he had only thought.

One of the medics approached him. He had an empty look in his eyes and his hands were stained with dried blood. The medic set down the case he was carrying and pulled Will’s bandaged hand into his own. He silently pulled off the trashed dressing and looked it over. The skin around the cut had turned a sickly gold. Will was too numb to even care.

The medic let out a deep sigh and got to work. He took a small blade out of the case and cut away at Will’s hand, carving out the infection. It was a long and painful process but he remained silent. By the end of it all his hand was covered in bright crimson and the grass beneath was slick with his blood. The medic poured something over it that stung like hell. Then he packed it with gauze and wrapped it in a clean bandage.

Next was his head. He turned on the cot so the medic could get a better look. He poured more of the liquid on the gash and Will twitched. He scolded himself for showing the weakness and clutched at the sleeves of the wool jumper he wore under his uniform. The wound was packed and bandaged without too much additional damage and Will was told to lay down. As he did the world bent around him. That was all the proof he required to know he needed rest. Being unconscious for hours had taken its toll on his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the Lieutenant speaking with the medic. Why did the older Blake care? Tom’s blood was on his hands. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Blocking out the sounds of the dying around him. It was all his fault.

When Will opened his eyes again the sun was low and the tents were much quieter. Those around him had either died or fallen asleep. The Lieutenant was still there beside him. He was holding a steaming cup of what was most likely stew.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he offered the tin.

Will could not remember the last time he ate a proper meal. He silently took the tin with his right hand and ate quickly. It tasted of watery tea and undercooked meat. This did not bother him however. He was hungry and this was food.

“Tom spoke about you a lot in his letters you know.”

His heart skipped a beat and an overwhelming numbness came over him. He looked down into his half empty tin, “He did? What did he say about me?” His voice was quiet, dull.

The Lieutenant’s reply was barely above a whisper, “A lot of things. He really loved you Schofield.”

Will’s heart pounded in his chest at the words. This was the last thing he needed. Not only would he hate him for letting his brother die, now he had a whole new reason to despise Will. He wanted to curl up into a ball and never get up.

“It’s alright, I’ve… I’ve known for a long time,” there was a dead look in his eyes and he stood, turning to leave, “I’ll take you to the quartermaster tomorrow and get you a new rifle and kit. For now get some rest.”

The fabric of the cot was itchy against his skin but he barely noticed. The Lieutenant knew. There was no anger in his voice. Only the overwhelming sadness of loss. Maybe he was okay with it. Maybe he would beat Will within an inch of his life. He pushed these thoughts away and focused on getting to sleep.

***

His hands were bathed in red. The bleeding just would not stop. It flowed slowly from Tom’s side, dripping onto the dirt. Will pressed his hands to the wound, making Tom wince. He had to survive. He had to, he had to. Will could not do this by himself.

Embers from the fire drifted by them, glowing in the grey sun. Tom’s skin was so pale as he reached to take Will’s hand. The boy was terrified. The person Will loved above all else was dying and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Forced only to watch as the life drained from his eyes. 

Tom reached weakly for his neck with his free hand, fingers fumbling with the chain. Will slipped it over his head for him, the little gold ring twisting slightly in the breeze. He moved to give it to Tom but the other pressed it into his hand instead. Silently telling him to take it. He smiled sweetly up at him and Will could feel himself start to break. But he could not. He had to be strong for Tom. He gripped the boy’s hand, so much smaller than his own, and watched as he died. He took a last look at the small photo of his family.

“Tell them, I wasn’t scared.”

Slowly, Will blinked awake. He scratched the sleep from his eyes. It was still too early for the sun. He raised his arm to check his watch only to remember it was broken. His left hand felt like he had dipped it in fire and he hoped the sensation would soon go away.

The world around him was silent except for the occasional moan of the dying. He had to get away from this hell. He swung his legs off the cot. So far so good. Standing was a little harder than he thought. It felt like his bones would snap under his weight. They shook violently and it was not long till he had to sit again.

He reached for the rings around his neck, holding them tight. Will felt like someone had carved out his insides. There was no pain, just a big empty hole where they used to be. He wished there was pain. It would make it easier to believe if it hurt. As it was he just felt hollow. He did not even have it in him to cry even though he knew how good it would make him feel.

It was freezing even though it was april. His body was still too weak to shiver so he clenched his jaw instead. They had not given him a blanket. He curled into himself on the cot and waited for the sun.

Time passed impossibly slowly. It felt like days but the sun had barely moved. His strength was coming back to him but not nearly as fast as he would like. It might take days for him to recover completely. Not that he would tell that to anyone.

He examined the man next to him, watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He had dark hair and a young face. Could not have been older than twenty. Blood soaked bandages wrapped themselves around his chest and what remained of his right arm. He would be sent home if he survived his injuries. 

Soft footsteps approached and one of the medics tapped his shoulder. He asked Will to sit up. He obliged and the medic took his left hand, gingerly undoing the bandage. He shook his head at the bloody mess, pouring more of the stinging liquid on it. The medic stuffed fresh packing into the crater in Will’s hand and wrapped it with clean dressing. 

Then he moved to his head. He undid the bandage and took out the packing. This time he took a cotton and doused it in the liquid, holding it against his head. The medic kept it there as he wound bandage around his head. Will hated him for that. 

There was obviously a good reason for the man to do this but Will desperately needed something to occupy his mind. With every passing second the pain seemed to multiply until, finally, it broke. Now it just felt cold against his torn flesh. It felt wonderful.

Hatred was no longer an option. He would have to find some other way to keep himself distracted. The Lieutenant was picking his way through the tents, looking over the injured with concerned eyes. He made his way to Will. He seemed empty and for this he was grateful. A broken man could not hurt him.

“Let’s get you some breakfast,” he offered Will his hand.

Will declined, standing on his own. His legs shook but they bared his weight and after a few steps he was stable. They walked slowly back into the trenches and he found himself feeling more and more trapped. Men shuffled around, repairing the trench walls. Shells had taken out most of the front line. 

Breakfast turned out to be a tin of something that resembled stew and a stale slice of bread. Will ate all the same. He did not see the Lieutenant take any food however. He caught Will’s gaze, “I already ate.” A lie. He doubted the man had eaten since breakfast the day prior. Everyone had their own way to cope.

He finished off his small meal and began to make his way to the quartermaster, the older Blake following close behind him. The quartermaster was a shorter man with a permanent look of exhaustion under his eyes. He took one look and Will and began digging through supply crates. He pressed a new rifle, kit, and helmet at Will and went back to his work.

He clipped on the webbing and put on his helmet. The rifle was a brand new model from 1917 The bolt was smoother than his old one but the weight seemed off in his hands.

The Lieutenant spoke, “There’s a convoy headed to the 8th in a few minutes. It’s loading up by the woods. If you hurry you might catch it. If they try to stop you, just tell them I sent you,” and then he was gone, lost in the crowd.

Will slowly trudged through the trenches to the woods. The trenches had been made in a hurry and so were not very hard to navigate. There was barely even a curve to them, making the soldiers sitting ducks if the Germans decided to start shelling again. 

At the edge of the woods was a group of three lorries and a small car. He approached the convoy. The Colonel stared vacantly at him before waving him to the last lorry. Will made his way to the vehicle and climbed in. The other soldiers were talking in hushed voices.

“And did you hear what he said to Anderson?”

“God. That bastard. I’ll kill him.”

“Spear him on the end of my rifle. Blow him to little bits,” the others laughed.

Will was completely lost and to be honest he did not really care. He settled onto the bench halfway down the lorry and set his rifle between his legs. The soldiers continued to describe various ways of hurting this unknown person. He must have really pissed someone off. This was going to be a long journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones for you alice. dont let people drag you down.

The men raged on about this stranger and eventually Will discovered what had happened. Anderson was everyone’s favorite. He was cheerful and generally pleasant to be around. Some asshole, who nobody would name, had pushed him into the mud and said something, nobody would repeat, and gotted the whole platoon up in arms. Will agreed that there was no need for the man to do this but the others were taking it a bit far with how to deal with him.

The sun crawled across the sky and they found themselves passing Ecoust. Will vaguely remembered his time there. Thinking about it made the gash in his head hurt. That kid he had strangled, the fear in his eyes. It was best not to dwell on it.

The quiet fields spread out before them. An occasional dead cow breaking the peace. Will felt his stomach drop. He knew what was coming next. He screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the building. The smell of old smoke filled his nose and he knew they were there. He did not want to think about what had happened. He would have to eventually, but not now.

One of the others spoke up, “Is that a plane?”

“Where?”

“Look! In that pile over there!”

“Is it one of ours?”

“Nah, I think it’s German.”

“Good. Bastards.”

After a few minutes of silence, Will opened his eyes again, certain they were past the farmhouse. His eyes grew hot but no tears came. Instead he sat, the others chatting about what they would buy when they got home. If they got home Will thought. He hoped this war would be over soon. As of right then it seemed it would go on forever.

They were coming up on the 8th. It was surreal to just drive over the German line. No gunfire, no shells. They passed quietly over the trenches and through no man’s land. The convoy pulled up behind the English trenches and stopped. As the others got off, Will realized he had no idea where to go. It would be best to start with Sergeant Sanders he thought. He hopped off of the lorry and wandered into the trenches.

The men seemed much more at ease knowing there were no Germans just 100 meters away. They played games and shouted to one another. It was still hard to mistake their mood for happy, however they were cheerful enough.

Will pushed his way through them. No one knew what he had done. Of course not. What he did was not important. All he was was a messenger, postponing the deaths of 1600 men for another few days. Maybe a week.

A cold breeze blew against his cheeks and he shivered. It was only April eighth but the temperature was already beginning to rise. Soon the fields would be filled with flowers. 

Mud caked his boots and weighed him down as he walked. With spring coming, things would only get wetter. The craters would fill with water much quicker and the battlefield would be impassable. He dreaded laying barbed wire in the knee deep mud he knew was coming.

His hands were freezing and he pressed them to the back of his neck to try to warm them up. The Sergeant had to be around here somewhere. He scanned the men around him for Sanders. After an hour or so, he found him. He was speaking with Lieutenant Leslie in hushed tones. The Lieutenant looked deathly pale as he took a swig from a small bottle of brown liquor.

“I can’t tell him. He’ll be crushed,” Leslie’s voice was hoarse.

“He needs to know,” said Sanders.

“The man’s going through enough! He shouldn’t have to worry about me.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation as the Lieutenant stormed off somewhere. He slowly approached Sergeant Sanders, he looked pissed. Will hoped he would not redirect it at him.

“Sergeant? I don’t know where to go,” his voice was raw from not speaking for so long.

Sanders spun on him, surprised to hear his voice, “Schofield! I, I heard what happened,” he stuttered, “Blake was a good man.”

“He was Sir,” the numbness was heavy in his stomach. He knew it was only a matter of time before it became a crippling pain in his chest. The rings pressed icily against his skin under his uniform.

“You really want a new assignment so soon? Are you sure you don’t want some rest first?”

“With all do respect Sir, rest is the last thing I need.” 

It was the truth. If he was given the opportunity to sit, Will knew he would break. He could not let that happen yet. He had to work, had to distract himself from the overwhelming loss in the pit of his soul.

“Well. A scout group was just sent out to the old German line. You could bring them some supplies for the next few weeks. Hell, stay out there, watch for any sign that someone might still be there.”

Will thought he might be assigned to dig trenches, repair wire. Not this. He knew the Sergeant was being easy on him. Sanders cared for his men and it showed. But this was not what Will needed. He needed something that would wear him out, leave him no time to think at the end of the day. Even so, he would not complain.

Sanders got him a pack with food and munitions. It was not too heavy but still made it hard to move quickly. As he crept through the barbed wire, his left hand began to sting. Remembering what had caused the injury he was careful to avoid the sharp points. A boardwalk had been hastily layed down and wire had been cut to make a clear path. It was much more manageable than the first time around.

He kept his eyes focused ahead, trying not to look at the mud covered bodies below his feet. Wind clawed its way through his uniform, raking his skin with icy hands. He wrapped his arms tight around his chest, trying to keep warm. The cold seemed to bite into his face and neck. He hoped when he got into the German trench that the wind would die down.

Will could hear voices now. There were three of them and they were arguing rather loudly over something. He recognized two of the voices as Kilgour and Rushworth.

Kilgour was whining, “But why do I have to check?”

“Because Stokes did it last time! Plus it’s funny when you get scared,” Rushworth countered.

“But you haven’t checked in ages,” Kilgour really did not want to do whatever this was.

The third voice, Stokes, shouted, “For Christ’s sake Kilgour! Just check the damn bunker!”

There was some grumbling and shuffling of gear. After a minute or so of silence, Rushworth called out.

“Well? Is it a rat?”

A very faint response, “Must ‘ave been but i can’t find it anywhere.”

Now Will was very close to the edge of the trench. He saw Rushworth and one other who must be Stokes, standing by a small doorway. A memory pushed its way to the surface of his mind and he knew what he was looking at. This was the doorway into the bunker, the one that led through to the quarry behind the trenches. He remembered the crushing weight of the rocks piled on him, the stinging dust, blinding him. How Tom. No. Not now. He would have time for that later.

Kilgour reemerged from the doorway. The others seemed annoyed by this but that was not uncommon. Although Kilgour meant well, he could be a bit much at times. The three moved over to a small makeshift table and pulled out a ratty deck of cards.

Will tossed his bag of supplies over the side of the trench. It landed with a loud thud. The men turned quickly to see what the sound was. Upon seeing Schofield, they laughed. Their nerves were probably already shot from being at war for so long. Will jumped down next to the pack.

The wind died down a little once inside the trench but he was still cold. He tugged his coat tighter around his body.

Kilgour was the first to stop laughing, “You’re fuckin’ alive! I thought for sure you’d bit it!”

“Sadly no,” it was the truth and if the others knew, they did not speak.

He sat with the other men around a makeshift table. The deck of mouldy cards was a few short but they did not care. It only made the games more interesting. They played for a time, not really bothering to keep watch. They all knew full well that nobody was there. Kilgour seemed a bit jumpy but that was just how he was.

The day seemed to stretch on forever. After what seemed like hours, the sun reached the horizon and they allowed themselves to break into their rations. Stokes had a small Primus stove that they used to heat up some food.

They talked while they ate and the others demanded to get Will’s full story. He politely declined and shifted the subject onto what had happened while he was gone. All in all it had been relatively quiet. Since there were no Germans on the other side of no man’s land, the men had been given what could almost be called a break. 

Apparently Leslie had caused quite a scene when he discovered somebody had been stealing his cigarettes. Only problem was he did not know who so he lined everybody up and searched them one by one. God knows what he was hoping to find. If somebody really did steal his cigarettes they probably would have smoked them. Not kept them in their pockets.

At this point, the Lieutenant could have just misplaced a few and forgotten about them. He was half delirious with the flu. It was a miracle he was still on the front and not on medical leave. If the state he was in earlier was any tell, Will thought he would not last much longer. He had seen men that appeared to be fine, drop dead of the flu in a day.

After they ate, they all found places to sleep. Stokes and Rushworth moved to one of the craters and Kilgour slept sitting up by the doorway into the bunker. Will tried his best to sleep but the pain in his head and hand would not let him. Instead he lay awake, wishing for Tom’s warm body to be curled next to his. The soft kisses he would press into Will’s skin when he was sure nobody was looking. He worked the chain from under his jumper and rubbed the metal rings with his thumb. 

A chill bit at his face and hands and he took out his blanket and wrapped it around himself. From where he lay on his side, he could see Kilgour and the doorway. Time crept by. It must have been almost midnight and Will was starting to drift off. Something in his vision shifted. It was Kilgour. He got up and snuck slowly down the stairs and into the bunker. Whatever he was doing, Will did not care. 

The numbness in his gut slowly started to turn to pain. Tears pricked in his eyes as he realized just how alone he now was. He had known it all along but now it was really starting to sink in. Tom was gone. His body lay cold in the grass far away.

He sat up, pulling the chain off of his neck, staring at the two rings that hung on it. He should get rid of them. Throw them as far as he can. The reminder would only stand to cut him deeper. If he got rid of them he might stand a chance of holding it together long enough to survive. That was all he ever did anymore, survive. There was no time for anything else. The rings glinted in the dull starlight.

Tom’s death was pointless. Colonel Mackenzie was right, he had only postponed those deaths by a few days, maybe a week if he was lucky. None of them would ever make it out of this hellhole of a war. He would die in the mud and the rain, for nothing. His death would not change anything. Men would still fight and die as if he had never been there.

And now he cried. Clutching the rings tight with both fists, furious at himself for even considering tossing them. He held them against his heart and choked back his sobs so as not to wake the others. He cried for Tom and whispered silent apologies for his death, over and over again. It was all his fault. The lingering scent of blood filled the air around him. If he had just protected Tom this never would have happened. He would be here right beside him, resting his head on Will’s lap as he slept.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he lay back down. Pulling the blanket close around his shoulders, Will cried himself to sleep. Pleading with anyone that would listen for just one more minute with his lost love. To tell him one last time just how much he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a BEAST to write. im working on like three different things right now so updates might take a little longer but ill try to get one out every week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there are two mentions of intent to commit suicide but i’ve marked the beginning of each paragraph with a ~. if i missed anything please let me know it the comments and i’ll get right on it.

People always say loss gets better. That every day it becomes easier to manage. If you take it one day at a time, the world will get happier again. All of it is a lie. Loss hangs deep within someone, a constantly bleeding wound. The only thing that gets better is one’s ability to ignore it. One little thought could tear open the flesh, spilling viscous blood from a gaping wound in the soul.

At first it will seem that everything is that little thought. Ripping you apart from the inside. But as days go by, the pain becomes less frequent. Barely a dull ache in the back of one’s mind. Time will wrap itself around the gash, stem the flow like an old bandage. Will knows this and he knows it well. But it hurts so bad. It cuts into his mind every waking moment.

First he begged to forget. But that only made his self loathing stronger. To forget Tom’s face, his eyes, his smile, his laugh. It would be the final blow to Will’s already damaged soul. No. He had to remember, needed to remember.

Writing the letter to Tom’s mother was a struggle. He balanced shakily on the line between saying too much and too little. Enough to let her know he had cared for her son but not loved him. Enough details to make her smile but not cry. He felt as though he stood on the edge of a blade that cut deeper with every word he wrote. Everytime his pencil touched the paper his eyes began to burn with fresh tears.

He shook almost constantly now. A low level tremor. He wanted to believe it was just the cold but Will knew better. The shake in his hands made it difficult to hold his rifle steady. A dark part of his mind told him the others knew, that they saw him as less for it.

However, reality could not have been farther. They saw a man who had been through more than he was equipped to handle. A man who needed rest more than anything. Who should be treated with respect for what he has been through. Will did not see this though. He was certain that they saw a broken soldier, not fit to be on the front, who silently cried himself to sleep every night. He rarely slept now anyway. And when he did it was restless and plagued with nightmares.

He talked to the others when they wanted to talk to him. Never starting up conversation on his own. On the tenth, Kilgour sat him down and drilled him on what was wrong. After what felt like hours of one sided conversation, he put it together. Blake was gone. Kilgour knew the two were at least friends. He opened his little notepad and tore out a page, handing it to Will. On it was a sketchy picture of himself and Tom leaning against a tree. Upon closer inspection he discovered it was a drawing of them eating cherries. They looked so happy despite the war raging around them.

“Can I. Can I keep this?” his voice shook almost as bad as his hands.

Kilgour’s voice was soft when he spoke, “Of course. I know what it’s like to forget someone and I don’t want anyone else to feel that.”

Then he was gone. Kilgour was never really one for comforting touches. It was rare to see him physically comfort another soldier. Even a pat on the shoulder seemed hard for him.

Will stared at the picture for a long time, before finally tucking it away in his blue tin. That night he stayed up to watch the stars. Something in them seemed calming. In one hand he held tight to the rings and in the other he clutched his tin. For just a second it seemed that the stars were moving.

He spotted Kilgour creeping down the stairs again. He was down there every night. Long after the others would fall asleep, he would make his way down into the bunker. Then in the early hours of the morning he would come back up. Will might go down there after him if he did not think he was having a wank. However the long hours Kilgour spent in there said otherwise. Still, it was not his business.

Over the next couple of days, the pain of his loss seemed to only get worse. He spent most of his nights looking at the stars now and sleep was becoming less and less frequent. Everytime he moved his eyes it felt as though a jolt of electricity shot through him. He wished he could just go to sleep and not wake up.

~As time passed he found himself adjusting. Tom was gone and it hurt like hell. But the hurt was buried under his own flesh and bone. It was a deep ache, pumping through his veins. Like a low burning flame in the center of his chest. Will wanted to carve it out of him like the infection in his hand. Sometimes he would just sit, holding his shining new bayonet, and stare at the sky. Almost as if he was asking permission. Then the wind would start to blow and he would put away the blade as if nothing had happened.

Every night he would open the tin and stare longingly at the contents. The loneliness came in waves. Sometimes it was bearable, other times it was a crushing weight on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He did not really talk to the other soldiers much. They respected him enough for his rank but they did not know each other. The only person Will really knew was Tom. Now he had no one.

After six days in the German trench, mail came. A small boy carrying a bag dropped down into the trench. The others swarmed around him, hoping for letters from their loved ones back home. Will hung back. His sister had not written him since his leave and he did not think that was going to change now.

When the boy approached him it was a complete surprise. Digging in his pack, he pulled out a small letter. It had clearly not left the battlefield and Will had a sinking feeling in his gut at the sight of it. On the smudged envelope was his name, written in a shaky hand. He immediately knew it was from Lieutenant Blake.

It was light in his hands and he did not want to read it. He wanted to get rid of it and pretend it never existed. But he knew that was wrong. Whatever the envelope contained had a reason for finding him. He should just get it over with. It was not like the paper could hurt him.

Oh but it could. That letter was the one little thing that could rip apart the fresh wound in his heart. It was very short and stained with mud. There was no name at the top of the letter. Will’s first thought was that it was out of disgust but that could not have been farther from the truth. It read as such,

'Please do not think I hate you. I do not. I could tell you were a good person from Tom’s letters. He loved you more than life itself and I’m sure you felt the same. If we both make it out of here, my door is always open.

Joseph'

The letter tore Will apart. The little bits of grief that had scabbed over began to gush again. He was barely able to hold it together. He missed Tom so much. He missed the brush of their shoulders as they passed each other in the trenches. He missed the quick kisses in the dark, away from the others, under the stars. The warmth he felt inside at just the sight of him. He missed the feeling of Tom’s small hands in his own.

Will remembered well the stories of the Blake house. The cherry trees, the hills, the pond. He would have loved to see it someday. But not by himself. It felt wrong. Tom was supposed to show it to him. Take him through the trees, over the hills. He told of how the pond always managed to stay cool even in summer and was perfect for swimming. Even knowing what he was, Joe was still willing to take him in.

He took out his tobacco tin and opened it. It had served so many purposes now. To lose it would be to lose a part of himself. Carefully folding the letter, he tucked it away in the tin. Will quickly glanced at the other items inside. His sister and nieces smiled up at him from their photographs. The sketchy drawing of him and Tom made his heart hurt. The little tin was heavy in his mind. It was slowly becoming more and more important to him. It kept him tied to the world as the rings kept him tied to what he lost.

As he lay by one of the craters in the trench, he held one hand under his coat, against the tin, and the other tangled in the chain around his neck. It was cold again that night. It was always cold. He barely even felt it anymore. The stars seemed to twirl above his head.

Kilgour slunk down the steps again. Every night he would wait till he thought everyone else was asleep. Then he would click on his torch and climb down the stairs. Whatever he was doing was obviously private seeing as he did not want anyone to know. Will never brought it up but he really wanted to know what he was doing down there every night. In the morning he would come back up, refill his canteen, and join the others for breakfast. How he managed to use all his water every night escaped him. He was pretty sure he even caught the kid stealing bandages once.

~That night, he did not sleep. The wind nipped at his cheeks but he did not care. His bayonet hung heavy at his side. Always a way out, never out of reach. His fingers mindlessly undid the clips holding it in place. Sliding the weapon from its sheath, he held it against his heart. It would be so easy. The cold bit into his face and hands. Putting the blade away, he tucked further into himself to try to keep warm.

The next morning was icy. Will got up and slowly made his way to the others. His body was stiff from sitting in the cold but it was nothing a little hot food could not fix. He could barely feel his feet as he sat down before the primus stove. Rushworth was heating up a tin of stew. It had an off putting orange colour but that would not stop anybody. He could make almost anything edible, even mud from the bottom of his boots.

The other men chatted while they ate. Will had no idea what about, he did not care. His blue tin was warm against his chest and the metal rings pressed into his skin. The world around him was the same dull brown it always was. Fresh smoke billowed on the horizon. Soon they would abandon this trench and move up to the front. It was only a matter of time.

Something loud crashed to the floor in the bunker below. Killgour just about jumped out of his boots, “Probably just a rat. No need to check it,” he was trembling slightly.

Stokes stood, taking his rifle and starting towards the stairs, “You know our orders. We hear a sound, we shoot whatever makes it.”

Now Killgour was up and rushing to the doorway, blocking it off, “Then I’ll check! I’ve got it!”

Will and Rushworth took up their rifles and made their way to the pair. Stokes turned to Will, “Your call Lance Corporal.”

“Of course we’re going to check! Get the fuck out of the way Kilgour!” Will shouted, suddenly full of rage. Kilgour shook his head and Will hit him hard in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. The boy tumbled down the stairs with a yelp and landed in a heap at the bottom. He moaned, holding his head in his hands.

Will hurried down the stairs and just about crashed into another boy. Even in the gloom, he could tell he was injured. There was bandage around the right side of his face and his left shoulder. A sickly black bruise twisted its way around his throat beneath his German uniform and he was shaking with fear. The boy stumbled back, away from Will.

Kilgour yelled at him, “Schofield! Don’t!”

Realization swept through him, coming to rest heavily in his mind. It was hard to tell through the bandages but he recognized the face of the boy before him. One does not easily forget the faces of the dead. This was the German he had strangled in Ecoust. He was supposed to be dead. Somehow he had survived and now he was down in the bunker. Kilgour had known he was down here. That’s why he came down here every night. Why he was stealing bandages.

A pang of guilt ran through his heart at the state of the kid but it was quickly masked with anger. Anger at the German for being here. Anger at Kilgour for not telling anybody. Anger at himself for a million little reasons. In his grieving mind he managed to pin all the rage he felt onto the German. As if killing him would bring Tom back. Fix all of this. He raised his gun.

The kid raised his arms, his left arm lagging behind, “Bitte! Please don’t shoot me!” His voice was raspy and broken.

Will aimed the barrel at his heart, “He’s a Hun. I have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a much darker turn than i excpected. i just started and couldn't stop and it flowed so well in my personal opinion. things will get better in the next chapter i p r o m i s e


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